


heart like a flower, tending towards the light

by Ghostigos



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Friendship/Love, Gen, Kinda, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 13:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: In a small town, the reservoir of new faces runs dry fairly often, and you have to either socialize with what you have, or become isolated. So these people that watch you grow up and change  — well, you do the same. And you take what you can get.Alt: Wendy Testaburger and the people around her.





	heart like a flower, tending towards the light

**Author's Note:**

> (but under your skin, you are bright as glass — _and the soul which comes sighing and dreaming finds herself dying to hope, to divine, and to soar_ )
> 
> there is a scene involving explicit gender dysphoria and talk of transphobia, mindfully.

If love is something poetic and ethereal, untouchable and diverse in meaning, then you consider yourself to be novice to the experience.

Maybe it’s because this hand that holds yours when you walk to class, the chapped lips from Colorado’s frigid temperatures that give you a peck of departure, the jackets that you’ll steal out for comfort or for teasing, are so _normal_ to you. It’s an ancient feeling, as old as when you were just beginning to experiment with emotions and learn what they were, what they were in terms of other people who _weren’t_ like you. You grew with this love, and you never considered it something to sit and daydream about like your friends, when middle school rolled around and _everybody_ was trying french out in the hallways.

Maybe it’s something you should’ve tossed out, in the end.

But Stan, like the rest of your town, is so safe to you. Not as in a protective sense — you think you’re far more independent in _that_ department than your partner, honestly — but through all the break-ups and fights and eventual rekindlings, it was so familiar to you that you could slip right back into him without realizing, or remembering, why you’d ever broken up/gotten back together.

People might gasp in awe if you ever let this spill out that you, Wendy Testaburger, defined by the antonyms of ‘fucking around’ and ‘forgiving and forgetting’, would ever be so emotionally attached to anyone in this manner. You’re not sure what you’ll do with Stan in the long run — or what he’ll do with you, in that sense.

Still. You walk to fourth grade, to sixth grade, to eleventh grade, with your arm looped into his own, knowing the precise shape of his hands under the glove, and his side-smile’s dimples when he thinks of something funny, but doesn’t repeat it aloud.

You think you’re supposed to get a spark out of this, just once.

(When you snoop on Kenny’s phone and discover his music playlist dedicated to Kyle, you feel obligated to perform the same intimate act. You forget about the empty list of songs on your desk for a good couple of weeks due to final exams, and in the end you discarded the paper and tore it to shreds with a sobbing huff.)

-

When you were little, it was easier to just _hate_ things — people, especially. If you saw them as one-dimensional, similar to their one-dimensional mindsets, then you could better project your seething glares onto the _idea_ of what they represented.

(They say that when you point one finger you’re pointing three at yourself, but 'hypocrite' is a term you’ve shrugged away from multiple times and you’re not about to psychologically assess your strong morals and their origins _that_ deeply, yet.)

So if your enemies were a target of what you refused to reflect within yourself, then Eric Cartman was a fucking _dart board_ of immorality.

From the snippets of time you had with Stan’s friends, it sounds like Eric was a bottomless cesspool of everything you couldn’t stand: ignorance, racism, narcissism, god _knows_ what else. You’ll only ever applaud his seeming support of Craig and Tweek’s relationship back in elementary, and even that appeared to be for either personal gain, or…look, you’re nothing _close_ to qualifying as an armchair psychiatrist, but Cartman is very vibrant about things he’ll project onto others.

Much like you, you grimace.

Polar opposites, the both of you. You figured that if Kyle wasn’t barking up his heels half the time then you would gladly substitute. Whenever he’s absent, though, you often serve as a sort of understudy to just a moment have Cartman be held accountable.

When you’re older, the fire drains away from Eric Cartman enough to have you observe the layers underneath. You think he’s scared, when he’s hunched over in the library and looking every which way when he picks up a schoolbook. You think he’s lonely, when you spot him in the cafeteria sans his friends, who’ve migrated onto other peers and cliques. You think that, maybe, he’s a kid trapped in a body that won’t stop growing or melding into the age he’s so petrified of becoming.

You think it stems back to crappy parenthood, but again, you’re not about to diagnose anything specific.

It’s what he deserves, you think. All this time of people cramming logic and reason and empathy into his skull and him casting a blind eye just so he can scream and yell just for that _one_ minute of spotlight — it’s no wonder they all got tired of him, and collectively figured that a ravished animal will stop returning if you offered him no morsels. 

So, you watch Eric Cartman rot away.

This representation of your deep-rooted _hatred_ for the ignorant. You watch it deteriorate into something small, something breakable. Perhaps, even, something new.

It takes years and years for you to return to this thought, to have him curl a lip and demand, “ _What,_ ” as you tell him that you’re here to help out.

You’re not a babysitter, and will never claim to be — your time with Stan has taught you that there’s no way to go into anything with the idea to fix someone. Rather, you rebuild. You take the scalpel in your hands and cut, cut away the hurt inflicted on yourself, on others, on Eric himself, and you bury your fingers deep into whatever crevice you find — and pull something out of it.

When Cartman cries on your shoulder with fists clenched to your suit, tells you “ _thank you_ ” in whatever way he can, you let out a breath you’ve been holding for decades.

-

“I mean, it’s not really anything I’m ashamed of or whatever,” Bebe mutters, her lip pouted in concentration as she tidies up your nails. You watch her with a tickle of amusement on how dire she considers your chipped polish to be, but with Bebe you know that whatever she deems worthy of time, she _makes_ time for it, even if communication is out of bounds for now.

You wait patiently for her to finish whatever she was saying before you intervened — concerning her latest break-up with Kenny, it’s no wonder that she’s finding even the tiniest of distractions to bail her out of discussing it. Especially since that relationship unveiled something so important.

Eventually your bright orange-pink shade is back to its marvelous sheen, and Bebe plops back onto her crossed knees with refreshed triumph enlightening her stare. She twists the polish’s cap to seal it, then continues: “I always kinda suspected that me dating boys was always, like, _for_ something, but I don’t think I ever gotta kick out of their company. I liked things a lot — which sucks, but I was, like, ten, so sue me — but I didn’t ever feel this…I dunno, whatever you and Stan have. I didn’t get it.”

You don’t think you ‘get it’ either, but you hum along anyways.

“But with girls I _got_ it,” Bebe continues. “Y’know? Like…you’ve said to me before that you like whoever as long as they’re not a douche, right?”

Not your exact words, but, “Something like that.”

“Y’know what Craig and Tweek became an item and everyone was like, ‘Damn! I kind want something like that’?” Bebe then throws her hands up with an exaggerate sigh, falling gracefully onto her back and having her head vanish from sight; you imagine her blonde curls cascading onto the floor like a waterfall. “I was looking at them differently, like, ‘Damn, I wish _I_ had the guts to do what they were doing.’”

You’re immobile due to your freshly-painted nails, so you can’t join your friend in staring up at the ceiling in provoked contemplation. But, you can offer understanding on your behalf.

“I never really questioned how I felt because, y’know, accepting parents and feminist outlook or whatever,” you shrug. “So I always figured that whatever I was feeling was valid. I thought that went the same for when I realized that I romantically liked girls and boys and everything in-between.”

Bebe scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s just _you,_ Wends. You could stride into class with three boyfriends and be like, ‘I’m poly!’ And everyone would be like oh, yeah, sure whatever. Classic Wendy.”

You don’t think you’re _too_ fond of the example provided — given that you grew out of that phase of trying on sexualities like trying on clothes back in around freshman year — but you understand. It’s a small town and reputations are better maintained here; being labelled an SJW-related activist is a role you decided to adopt if it just meant you cared very, very loudly about certain things.

“I’m not asking you to walk up to the front of the class and scream that you’re gay,” you tell Bebe, fondly and with a grin. “But if I know that _my_ feelings are valid and important, then yours are just as.”

Even though you can’t see her face, you hear the frown in the following: “It’s just, with my family, y’know, and Clyde is always so persistent about—”

“Fuck them all,” you interrupt, reaching out gingerly to place a hand on Bebe’s kneecap, minding your fingers. “If they make you uncomfortable, ditch their asses. You’re fine the way you are, and if South Park decides to ramp you up as the Token Lesbian then you can ride that title to Lesbian Heaven if you need to feel better.”

That gets a giggle out of her — a big, hearty one.

“Or if you end up being bi, or pan, or whatever,” you continue, “I’ll keep everyone in line until you decide what you’re comfortable with.”

Bebe flips herself back up so her face is so close to yours you feel heat from her colored cheeks, all bashful and touched. Her eye rims are watery. “Thanks, Wends,” she whispers. “Same to you, too.”

“I know,” you say, and she smiles again.

You can’t paint the stripes of the lesbian flag as precise as you want, but Bebe still admires your work and dangles her fingertips out with the air of bubbling, pure joy, and squeals when you’re finished.

-

He doesn’t look up from his mug when you sit down next to him, outer thighs barely touching, so you know something’s amiss instantly.

You frown. “What’s wrong?”

In response, Tweek unclasps a hand from the cup, combs it through his messied locks, scrunches up the end in prolonged frustration before you watch his shoulder fill with inhalation, then decompress and curl farther into his fetal position. His forehead is touching the rim of his cup.

“Talk to me,” you insist.

He shakes his head sporadically; you can’t tell if the tics are Average Tweek or Brainwreck Tweek since you can’t see his face, but accounting for the rest of his body languages you’re betting on the latter.

You hold out your hand a moment in his peripheral vision, then land it around his skimpy, pale wrist and squeeze gently. He flinches, then relaxes, and you have time to listen to his rabbit-like heartbeat beneath your thumb.

It’s a wonder how you ever wound up in this position, but if your time with Cartman has proven anything, it’s that you’re attracted to the oppoite spectrum of morality much more than vice versa. Since Tweek was never deemed a threat to an ethics or debates you carried, he never came into your radar until recently. When you peeled away some layers and decided to breathe, and take advantage of a small town with smaller-minded people, before you expanded any more horizons.

Tweek just happened to cross your horizon, somehow.

He leans into your shoulder like you’ve drugged him, and you bring a hand to his hair and smooth it out with much more kindness than he opted for himself. It’s greasy; you’ll bring up the idea of showering later.

“Was it your parents?” you ask, and you don’t feel Tweek nod into your chest, so you prod, “Your medication? Craig? Someone else?”

“Just—” His breath shutters a little, and you _feel_ the trembling aches course through his bones before he melts into your hold farther; you grab the mug he’s holding and set it aside so it doesn’t spill. “Just…everything.”

You nod. Stan has bad days like this, too.

“It’s 2:30 PM,” you tell Tweek, stroking his back, feeling his spine bulge through his thin shirt. “I’ll go make you some tea with honey in it, and you’ll have plenty of time to have a quick nap without overlapping your sleep schedule. Do you want me to call Craig, or do you want me to stay?”

He thinks a minute, then says, “ _Stay,_ ”

You smile a little, sad but very, very relieved too. “Okay.’

Tweek doesn’t teach you much — in fact, you don’t think his friendship has _taught_ you anything. Maybe that’s why you like him, and still hang out with him on stormy days when Craig or other is unavailable. Or maybe because it’s something simple and easy to grasp, and because you like drinking coffee with a friend on Saturday mornings. Because you enjoy the validation that South Park really is a shitty town and you like that someone entertains the idea of leaving it all behind, before you both fall back to reality and think better of it.

A while later when Tweek, in a better frame of mind, makes you some beaded bracelets and laughs at a story you’re telling, you decide that this is why you stayed.

-

The shirt is too baggy, it makes you look cheap. The pants hug your butt too tightly, and it makes you look cheaper.

It’s not long before you throw in the towel and scream " _Dammit!_ " loud enough so everyone else in the changing stalls can hear you.

But you plop down into the corner anyway, and shrivel into the cruddy wallpaper and cry, just a tiny bit, angrily palming your face as a sorry attempt to wake yourself up from this fucking abysmal nightmare of shopping in an all-boys clothing store.

There’s a knock on the door that swiftly follows your meltdown.

“You okay in there?”

You wish you didn’t sniff so loudly, but your allergies are acting up this year so at least you’ve got some sort of excuse to cover your ass. Miserably, you answer, “Feeling great, thanks.”

You don’t hear footsteps retreating. “May I come in?”

They’d leave if you asked and you know it — something you like about them. Although you consider yourself a more aggressive-aggressive sort of person, your friend has taught you that in passive, there is a strength, respect, even. They know boundaries better than anyone and it’s served them well in guiding you through this shitshow of a middle school phase gone horribly wrong.

You tell them yes — they’ve seen you in underwear before and the ratio of arousal on both parties was 0:0, so you’re comfortable with this.

Specifically since once Kenny’s slipped inside, they close the door immediately.

They crouch to your eye level, looking concerned if not sympathetic towards your situation. “We can try again later, if you need to leave,” they assure you.

You shake your head. “No, I…I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“Then what is?” they inquire, tone balanced and very patient, with posture just the same.

“I just— All my life I’ve been trying to avoid boxing people into stereotypes and…” You laugh but it’s a little wet, “I just realized that I’m boxing myself into these gender-neutral clothing items too, even when it doesn’t _matter_ because I keep telling people that clothes don’t _have_ a gender, but…”

You trail off.

“...But you’re worried that other people will box you in?” Kenny retrieves.

It hits an open nerve, and you cry a little harder, hugging your knees. “So fucking stupid of me to not practice what I preach. But I’m not— my parents already think this gender thing is a big fat phase and I don’t know how to tell them different because, like— sorry I can’t see the future but this is how I feel _now??_ So…yeah.”

Kenny puts a hand on your bare knee. “It’s okay, I get it,” they say, and they do. “I know you don’t wanna hear that you shouldn’t care what other people think, but it comes so naturally to you — being yourself and standing up for what you believe, and all. It’d suck if you lost that just because you’re worried about some guy on the street thinking you’re one way and you’re not.”

You sniff, unraveling your form a little.

“I mean, we can start small,” Kenny points out. “You said you were looking into binding your chest, so maybe we could do that first? And then we can come back here, and see how you feel?”

Unraveling further, loosing the chest in question and instinctively sheltering them from view with your arms, you nod. “Yeah, that…that sounds good. And reasonable. I think the main source of all this comes from having breasts, so maybe if we smooth that out, then I’ll feel better suited to try on guy clothes.”

“ _Your_ clothes, not guy clothes,” Kenny says, and gives a laugh when you good-naturedly swat them away. You scoff. “Oh my god, do _not_ go PC on me when I’m having a crisis in a fitting room, McCormick. Just let me buy my underwear and we can go.”

They blink. “Oh, you’re gonna get the boxers?”

“Might as well,” you shrug, looking down at said clothing equipment. “They don’t fit me snugly and I like the looseness of it. It’s a start, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” They grin again, and without the shit-eating vibe their smile usually carries, you think it suits them. Much better than when you were kids and hardly ever caught a glimpse of what was going on with them; you’re glad that after a while, they let you dissect their brain a bit and expose more of themself (physically and emotionally) the more you hung out.

It’s something you’re glad you tried.

You pay and leave, and depart the mall with a mouthful of Cinnabons and slushies and laughs.

-

You can’t say you ever actively sought out Kyle’s company, since a good portion of the time it just _happened_. Although, in hindsight you don’t know why you pretended to be so surprised about always finding him around your social gatherings, considering that he and Stan were so close-knit growing up. If Stan is the equivalent of an old coat you can’t find yourself getting rid of, then Kyle is like the tag on the back of the coat. You can try to cut it off, but it was always there.

There was a brief period of time — a dark, puberty-filled, awkward time — when Stan’s sexuality questions aligned with your own, and when he eventually conceded that guys and girls were equally pretty, you _did_ have that bone-deep twinge of fear that only a third wheel could have. But it evaporated the moment that Stan shrugged and said with deepest sincerity, “Nah. He’s just a good friend to me.”

And so, Kyle stayed.

You visit frequently now, since your boyfriend’s best friend is also your best friend’s boyfriend, and tons of double dates occur because of this — but one-on-one alone time occurs once in a blue moon for you both, and you think that this is a mutual negotiation. With two characters as strong and as prominent as yours, you think you could’ve been competitors, biting at each other’s throats to one-up the successor.

Eventually you both just decided that great forces don’t always have to collide, so this of itself is the closest you think you can come to friendship.

The moments where you spot a tamer being underneath the fiery, vivid persona that is Kyle Broflovski are a rarity, but you appreciate them because they’re all beginnings of something — understanding, maybe. Or reciprocal admiration.

When Stan fell asleep on the couch during movie night, and Kenny had already left, you and Kyle were the only ones awake. Stan was sandwiched between you both: he had you in a suffocating headlock that you didn’t _really_ want to break out of, since you’d disturbed him that way, and his feet twisted into Kyle’s lap, which he seemed fairly dismayed about. You both were just trapped in that moment of awkward until someone fell asleep or had the guts to wake Stan up or if Stan woke himself.

But Stan was out cold, and neither of you are the type to yield, so you just sat like that.

You sat trapped, engulfed in the scent you’ve memorized like the back of your hand — pine, some expired secondhand cologne, and the distinct musk of dog — and feeling dizzy by the sheer amount of it all. When Stan murmurs a little in his sleep and nuzzles into your bosom, you think you’re supposed to be endeared rather than…just, melancholy.

It seemed like it would be one of those nights, where you were shut away from the mountains beyond, and whatever lay outside of this little redneck town — and a force halts you, keeps you from taking too many steps forward without you. One of you could very well drag the other down, if you kept going like this.

“Hey.”

The murmur comes out more like a backdrop buzz than a call, but since you’re on hyper-alert now, you look over Stan’s head to see Kyle staring at your intently. In the dim glow of the TV, you see an emotion cross his face that you don’t think you can identify.

“Are you…okay?”

It shouldn’t sting like it does, but there’s such a ping of sincerity in his voice that you’re almost _touched_ that he would come off his high horse to grant you concern.

You look the other way, naturally. You cover up any fleeting doubt in your mind with a resolute, “Yeah, just tired.”

He prolongs his stare a little longer, puzzling you, before retreating back into a folded position on the couch and trying to fall asleep like his friend. His even breaths follow shortly after.

You think Kyle forgets all about it later on but you never did.

It all _does_ spill out eventually, this loneliness you feel of being restricted from potential. After another swift break-up it’s Kyle that you turn to, and he listens to your rants and vents for a long while. Actually _listens._

How freeing it is, to finally crown the title ‘friend’ on someone you’ve known all your life.

-

You realize a long time later that what you learned in South Park was versatility — how even when you felt like a caged bird, aching for release into the big wide world, you found the freedom you desired from Bebe’s talk sessions, or Kenny’s shopping trips, or Tweek’s indoor nights. Even when Stan’s grip on you was too hard and debilitating sometimes, you admired the strength it carried underneath.

It’s not like yourself to exactly cherish the insignificant. They were all small things, in comparison to a bigger picture, but they were still _something._

So you return more often than you thought you would, enraptured by the people tucked into the mountains of a small town. Finding solace in the little moments, few and far between.

**Author's Note:**

> kenny mccormick is genderfluid and wendy/l testaburger is bigender and you literally can't change my mind, thanks.


End file.
